


Explain This

by Plastic Heart (FannibalToast)



Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Baking, Books, Cute, Depression, Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Food, Holidays, Kissing, Magic, Sierra Simone - Freeform, Snowed In, Suggestive Themes, Yoga, light sub!loki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28152522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FannibalToast/pseuds/Plastic%20Heart
Summary: Loki learns various lessons about Midgard from his favorite human.A mostly unrelated series of fluffy, funny drabbles and flash-fic.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 82





	1. Too Many Flavors

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small collection of drabbles, writing exercises, and snippets I compiled as I started working on a longer Loki project. I didn’t really intend to publish them, but they’re fun, so I figured why not?

* * *

“Mortal?”

“Hm?”

“Explain this.”

“Oh. _That_ is pasta. On pizza. With buffalo sauce. Annnd ranch dressing.”

“I do not understand. There are too many flavors. Why would humans do such a thing?”

“We are a garbage people.” You shrug and take a bite.


	2. Slutty Brownies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These aren't all about food, I promise.

* * *

“Mortal?”

“Yeah?”

“Explain this.”

“Oh, that’s a slutty brownie.”

“A… what?”

"Chocolate chip cookie dough mixed in with brownie batter.”

You stick in a spoon, drawing out a steaming, melted mass of just-barely-baked dough and batter. “Wanna try?”

He grimaces, recoiling. “I think not. It appears uncooked.”

“Just underbaked enough to leave it gooey. Come on, live a little.”

“I am immortal, pet, I have lived several of your lifetimes and then some.”

“Well live a little more and try this.”

You blow on it for him, breath stuttering at his sneer, and offer again. This time, he leans in, sniffing first, then extending just the very tip of his very pink tongue. He pulls back sharply, reminding you of a cat sticking its nose too far into its water bowl, and pauses, analyzing the taste. Mulling it over. Then his eyes go wide, head cocking to the side. He takes both spoon and dish from you and reclines marvelously, a king on his barstool throne.

“All right,” he says, as if eating it was his idea all along. “I shall accept this gift of slutty brownies.”

“Of course you will.”


	3. Yoga Pants

* * *

“Mortal…”

His pupils were blown, lips parted just slightly.

“Explain this.”

“What? This?” You arch your hips and drop your spine, sighing, perhaps with more enthusiasm than is truly necessary. “Just doing some yoga.”

“I am familiar with yoga. What, darling, are _these?"_ He bends to trace his fingertips over the curve of your ass, breath hitching as you arch again, bringing your spine up to pull away from his touch. 

“Oh, _these_. These are yoga pants.”

“Yoga pants.” His voice is low, nearly reverential. He repeats it as if you’ve told him some great secret.

He towers over you, making sure you have to contort around him in order to to move from the floor to your feet. You face away from him to bend at the waist. “They’re nice.”

“Are they? They look uncomfortable. So... tight.”

His hands find your hips, tugging you back against him. He pulls you upright to crush you against his chest, laving at your pulse point, and you have to bite back your grin. His breath is hot and quick against your ear, a low growl rumbling from his chest through your skin. 

“You’re interrupting my workout,” you whisper. 

“I’ve something more thorough in mind for you, darling.”

And who are you to refuse your king?


	4. The Gift

“Mortal?”

_ “Ohmygod!” _

“Explain this.”

“You weren’t supposed to find that yet!”

He arches one perfect brow. “Yet?”

“Well. I was hoping… Um. I was planning to ask… if you would wear that. For me?”

He holds it up on his finger. “This?”

You nod fervently, eyes wide, cheeks impossibly hot. “Uh huh.”

He grins, wide and wicked and perfect, eyes alight. “How could I refuse such a request, darling. Shall I wear it now?”

You set free the most delighted little hiccuping laugh.  _ Oh yes. _ Now would be fine. 


	5. New Traditions

Loki waves his finger through the air, looking out your window at the neighbors’ apartments, shiny and lovely in the night. “Explain this, mortal.”

You hum, not really looking up. “Christmas lights. Holiday lights, actually, not just for Christmas. Decorations for the season.”

“For these winter festivals you spoke of?”

“Right.”

He turns on the balls of his feet, not quite pacing, but refocusing to look at you fully where you’re tucked into your nest of blankets on the sofa. “You have no such decorations.”

“Nah. Not my thing.” You sound... detached somehow, your usual cadence flattened, but the Asgardian prince knows better. He traces his thumb over his chin, watching your determined efforts to focus on that portable computer of yours. 

He sits down gracefully at the opposite end, regarding you closely. “Are they not? They are certainly festive. You enjoy other festivities. Has this cluster of holidays offended you?”

He’s pleased when you smirk. He quite enjoys being able to make you do that.

“I did when I was little. But you know how it goes. After I moved here it was hard to get my feet under me. Took me a while to meet people and find new friends. Having no traditions became the tradition, I guess.” You shrug, tossing him a small smile that makes his heart squeeze. 

No. This would not do. 

He hums, mostly to himself, before sliding along the sofa, draping one arm behind you. When you look up, puzzled, perhaps even a little startled, he cannot help but grin. It is infinitely precious, when you look at him that way.

“And what traditions would you make now? In your new home? With your new… friends?”

Your eyes flicker down, just once, to his mouth, and it takes all he has not to kiss you then and there. Then you’re blinking, a lazy smile of your own curling over your lips. 

“I don’t miss the tree,” you admit. “But I do miss the lights.”

He waves his hand and suddenly your living room is glittering with strings of green and gold fairy lights, flickering daintily. “Good. What else?”

“Mm. Mulled wine.”

Two steaming mugs appear on the coffee table, sending up the scent of cinnamon, spice, and a rich, heady Malbec he'd seen stashed away in your pantry. 

“Wonderful. And what else?”

Loki's breath catches when your tongue darts to pull that delectable lower lip of yours between your teeth. “A fireplace. Heavy snow outside. Nothing but soft and quiet.”

He sees your eyes move from his face to the window to find it done. A fireplace shimmers into existence against the far wall, a warm fire crackling inside. You grin, watching the light catch on the glittering silver snow outside. Loki, however, watches you. Just you. 

When you turn back, there is a delight about you, a bashful, giddy energy that wasn’t there before, and it settles a crown of warmth over his heart, knowing it is because of him. But oh, there is also an inviting darkness about your eyes, a flirtatious twist in your smile. “Guess you’re snowed in,” you sigh. “You probably can’t go anywhere until tomorrow.”

“At least,” he agreed. “Though who is to say how long the storm will last.”

“Long enough to establish some new traditions?”

“Oh, pet. You’ve read my mind.”


	6. Thorny

“Mortal. Explain this.”

He holds up the book and quirks an eyebrow. He taps the image on the cover; a closeup of some lovely cleavage peeking through a cutout of a white blouse. His feigned indifference fails him today; his eyes are too bright. 

You bite back a grin and instead fan yourself, exhaling through pursed lips. “ _That_ is the first book in the Thornchapel series. Let me know when you read that one. I’ll have get ready.”

“Oh? In what way?”

His eyes fall to your mouth as you bite your lip, then fall lower as you pluck open the button on your blouse. Then another. 

And another. 

“So, so many ways.”

He makes as if to drop the book and you back away, pinching your shirt closed. “Nope! Not until after you read it!” 

Oh, he doesn’t like that. Not one bit. 

You shriek when he lunges, making it an impressive six steps before you’re clutched to his chest, breathless and all but vibrating with adrenaline. His hands make quick work of the rest of those pesky buttons and glide along your heated skin, his rich, rough laugh sending sparks of desire through every nerve. “It is unwise to torment your king.”

“Oh?” It leaves you as a low, needy sound as he tends to your throat with lips and teeth. 

“Indeed. You will pay penance, my little mortal. And when I am finished with you tonight, you will read this book aloud to your king and ruminate on how best to appease me.”

You remember the library scene and your breath hitches, twisting in his arms to crash your mouth to his. 

He grins through the kiss, pulling your legs up around his waist and stumbling toward your bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No but for real. If you're looking for something to keep you warm this winter, Sierra Simone's Thornchapel series is A+. Amazing kink, body positivity, trigger warnings at the beginning of each book--she's amazing.


	7. Tender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by Poetic_Fiasco’s  
> [That Need](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29027079?view_adult=true)

* * *

Loki pulls away, lips stained lush pink, swollen from the kiss. 

“Mortal…” His voice is low, stormy, breath hot against your lips. Eyes black and burning as they focus, desperate. 

“Explain this.” 

His breath stutters as you lean in to brush your lips against his jaw, arching to graze the tender spot just beneath his ear. You know deep in the hollow of your gut he’s sensitive there. Know that when you bite—and you will—he’ll set free the most exquisite, ragged moan. You wonder if he’ll arch his hips for you, if he’ll chase the friction you’ll deny him. If only for a moment 

Just enough to make him yours. 

You nuzzle into that flushed, delicate spot, and you feel the tremor surge through him, making his hands tighten in your hair. 

“You know what this is,” you tell him. Your lips press that spot, that sweet, soft spot, letting yourself linger there. 

He hasn’t begged yet. 


	8. The Days In Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written after a bad day. I felt a bit better once this was out. Maybe someone out there could use it, too <3

* * *

There’s a deep blue heaviness in your limbs and in your eyes, a feeling like navy. You’re no lively spark of cobalt and the optimistic periwinkle is gone from you. It’s cold and it’s dark, outside and in all those places between your ribs and around your heart, and where you usually can tell yourself to move, today you’re leaden haze, crinkled in the places you might have been smooth just yesterday. Messy. Scribbles instead of the cursive you need to be out in the world.

It’s snowing outside and it’s been snowing for hours and hours. It’s muffled out there, as if you’ve been cut off from anything outside of you, and really, outside of you is all you want. Like waiting for a big mean door to open, and you’re just sitting, staring up at it, hoping you can reach up enough to grasp the knob.

“Darling.”

Loki’s voice is so gentle, so soft, no different than snowfall, save for his warmth. But his fingertips are just cool enough, carding through your hair to find your scalp and he presses there, just at your crown, drawing slow, lingering circles that feel silver, like the skin on your neck is awake and alert, like your nerve endings remember how to sing, even though they can’t speak just yet. And then his other hand curves to cup your cheek, a barrier between you and the world. 

You can’t open your eyes, but you open your mouth, and his thumb is there, brushing your lower lip, pressing it as if to silence you.

“You don’t have to explain.”

You lose his touch, but only for a moment. He slides in beside you, pulling you to rest your head on his shoulder, tucked beneath his chin. His palm finds your cheek again as his other arm curls behind you, holding you close and precious. There’s this and only this, his lips against your forehead, the smoothing of his fingertips against the small of your back. It still feels like navy, but there are sparks of silver, too, not enough to illuminate you, but enough to remind you that there’s more than just the dark.

“It’ll be better tomorrow,” he tells you, whisper-soft and sincere.

“If it’s not?”

His lips again. At your hairline. Against each eyelid. Your nose.

“I’ll still be here. I’ll always be here. Because you are mine, and I am yours, and forever isn’t just the good days, is it? It’s every day in between and all the ones around the edges.”

You nod, finding enough strength to pull him close and tight. His breath is warm against your skin, and when he kisses your forehead once more, the little sparks of silver glow a bit brighter.

“Sleep, darling. Sleep. I’ll be here.”


End file.
